Negotiations
by SydnieWren
Summary: Having caught Ichigo, Aizen has a particular plan to use him to elicit a certain response from the gotei thirteen. Gin is required to do the dirty work - in return for a deeply desired reward. GinxIchigo, GinxKira. Noncon, anal, oral. Dark.
1. Negotiation

**Hey guys, back again. If you've read 'Silent Storms', this is sort of a wider picture of the events surrounding all the events involved in that situation. It's in my good ol' style, unlike the sort of experimental one in the other piece. So, I hope you like it! As always, please let me know what you think!**

**Warnings: noncon, anal, oral.**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**Enjoy!**

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He didn't know the _specific _reason he had been 'cordially invited' to Aizen's splendid throne room, his own personal reflection of his own grandeur, as pure as his intentions and vast as his power. Yet those invitations were always identical in essence: Aizen wanted something out of him that was too bizarre or complicated to ask of him briefly in passing.

"Evening," Gin greeted, having passed through the grand marble doors and crossed the pale path of stone to the foot of Aizen's throne.

"Good evening, Gin," he responded, "I appreciate your promptness."

"Hate to keep you waiting. So, how can I help you, Aizen-sama?"

Aizen quirked a brow at the honorific; it was unusual for Gin to be so cheeky, at least so early in a conversation with him. He supposed his invitation must have roused him from sleep or pleasuring himself, both of which were habits he had become rather immersed in since their stay in Hueco Mundo.

"We've just hosted a few visitors," the Lord answered smoothly, "and for some time I've had something of a plan in mind."

"Oh, well. Loud n' clear," Gin replied, grasping the hilt of his sword at his belt as if to communicate his preparedness for the solution - and the gross simplicity of it.

"Something a bit more complex than that, I think," Aizen went on, "would perhaps serve us better."

The word 'us' had long since triggered a sour humor in Gin; it was as wildly inappropriate as using some permutation of female pronouns, completely absurd and in no way applicable to Aizen's designs.

"Oh, I've gotcha. So what are _we _planning for the little guys?"

"I believe they were sent for a preliminary confrontation with our underground friends," he explained, "and I'm not interested in much bloodshed - it won't become necessary - though I believe I've developed something a little more...useful, a simple plan for preparing the future."

"Do tell!" Gin widened his grin in mock excitement.

"We have the boy -"

"Which boy? Hafta admit I know a few boys."

"Kurosaki Ichigo," Aizen replied evenly, though he wasn't far from a hiss - Gin's contradictory disposition was beginning to _disappoint _him.

"Oh, alright, got it. Sorry to interrupt. Go on."

"As I explained, I've no intention to kill him. Rather, I believe I'll send him back to them a little _changed_, if you will, perhaps rendered rather _incapacitated, _if you receive my meaning."

"I don't," Gin replied with a cock of his head, "guess I'm a little slow today."

"I see; how unfortunate. But do try to listen - your assistance is quite necessary. I mean to suggest that we alter the boy's disposition, and I hate to be crude - but do to it through rather _untoward_ means."

Gin was silent, head still turned in sarcastic confusion. It was at least slightly sincere; he hadn't an exact picture of what Aizen was planning, but he did assume a general theme from his unusual usage of the word 'crude.'

"I think I'm followin' you, really do. I just can't believe how dull I'm feelin' today. Maybe just a little more explanation? Really embarrassin', how slow I am today."

Aizen gripped the arms of his throne but otherwise gave no outward demonstration of his growing frustration. It was terribly unlike Gin, and he was inclined to forgive him on those grounds, just not at the moment.

"I'll be blunt: I mean to _use_ the boy, that is, _intimately _use the boy, and then send him back to them with a considerably altered disposition, if you understand. I believe this plan has significant potential. I believe it might incapacitate the boy - not physically, of course, I want this to be rather gentle - but perhaps undermine his resolve. It will draw the others out very shortly, and thus we will be quite prepared for their arrival - which I imagine will be far less calculated due to the circumstances."

"Sounds wicked," Gin agreed, nodding enthusiastically, "sounds genius. Didn't know you were in the business of rapin', though, known you for a while, but I guess you learn something new -"

"I'm not."

Aizen's calm, deep voice echoed in the stone chamber, which suddenly seemed a sight colder than it had been upon his arrival. For long moments he believed he could hear the fading remnants of the statement.

"I'll supervise, of course," he continued casually, "but sheerly for moral purposes."

He refrained from explaining that it was too base for him. It was apparent anyhow.

"Goodness!" Gin intoned sharply, opening his eyes in exaggerated surprise, "who's the lucky espada?"

"I'm afraid it isn't possible to use any of them," the Lord explained, his tone laden with superficial regret, "I find each of them is either unpersuadable or untrustworthy."

"You should let Grimmjow have his way with him," Gin suggested brightly, "he'd throw you a party if you let him."

"He would insist on harm or be insolent," came the immediate reply - clearly alternatives had been considered, which did offer a small boost of pride to the younger.

"Ulquiorra's a real obedient guy," Gin noted.

"And I did investigate that option. Yet he's - well, one might say he has very peculiar physiological issues."

"Right up Szayel's alley."

"He has made rather inopportune alterations to his body."

Silence reigned.

"Guess it's up to me, huh."

"I'm afraid so," Aizen replied softly, as though the decision burdened him, "but I'm willing to offer you a bit of restitution for this particular class of service."

"Oh yeah?" His interest was piqued, though in a rather morbid way: he was interested in hearing what kind of ridiculous compensation Aizen had in mind for exploiting his genitals of all things.

"They will send, your, ah -" the elder paused for a moment as though he had entirely forgotten his stay in the gotei thirteen, "- ah, that's it - your vice captain. They will send him back; and when we apprehend him, you're free to keep him."

Gin's heart sped up, and he stilled his breathing to mask his inexplicable reaction, though he had a notion that his superior could easily sense his sudden interest.

"As long as I bend the kid over, eh?"

"To be quite base, yes."

"And I can hang onto blondie then, yeah? Sounds like a deal, I've gotta say. Clever!"

Aizen smirked and nodded his agreement, as usual impressed with his own machinations.

"Well then," the Lord of Hueco Mundo announced, "I'll have him brought in."

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**More coming soon, if not today, then sometime this week. Reviews are loved!**


	2. Upholding a Bargain

When Ichigo awoke in his cell, he had absolutely no notion of how he had arrived there. The memory of fighting his way into Los Noches with a perhaps inappropriate proud determination was painfully fresh on his mind - he did recall realizing that he was outmatched - and the injuries that he had sustained still stung and ached; some of the deeper slashes, he realized, had been carefully stitched shut. He sat up, every muscle stretching in an agonizing chorus, some bruised bones threatening to break on the cold stone floor.

And there was something around his neck - some sort of metal collar - that he quickly found had entirely robbed him of any spiritual power. Any attempts at using it, his reiatsu or otherwise, were frustratingly useless. He scowled and immediately began to consider some kind of escape route, though the room was windowless and the doors appeared to be solidly shut.

It was the only thing he wore.

He didn't want to admit to himself how weak he felt, not only in principle, but in a very physical sense. It was immediately evident to him that he hadn't any chance of defending himself in any real sense if anyone were to -

The heavy marble doors slid open with the ominous sound of stone grinding on stone. A rather broad, tall figure entered, and the doors shut just as smoothly behind him, preternaturally fast.

Grimmjow.

"Hey buddy," the arrancar grinned, approaching him with an easy gait, "ain't it a surprise, catching up with you here. A damn shame what you're about to get, but hey - life's a bitch, right?"

Ichigo fully intended to respond, but there was suddenly a blinding pain coursing through him, originating at the back of his head, where his scalp was suddenly split, blood flowing onto the floor. Grimmjow's foot rested squarely on his chest.

The boy coughed and tried to turn to his side, to push himself up - Grimmjow corrected him with a sharp heel in the cheek. He was deeply enjoying his final domination over the other, though Ichigo was vaguely surprised by it - hadn't he always refused to fight a man when he was down? It didn't occur to the boy that he must have been under orders; he didn't understand the hierarchy of Heuco Mundo, didn't fully understand what they were capable of.

A muttered curse passed his lips, though he wasn't entirely sure what he had said. Grimmjow seemed to snicker at it, whatever it had been, as he scooped the boy off the floor, heaving him over his shoulder.

"Better get goin' pal, wouldn't wanna be late."

Ichigo couldn't comprehend much of anything then. It hurt too much.

The maze of endless white stone that passed him by was impossible to remember. He had a notion in the back of his mind to try to memorize each bend and corridor in order to escape later. A vague chill passed through him as he began to believe that he would never leave the place. He hung his head, unable to support it, against Grimmjow, who was still saying something he couldn't quite hear or parse.

He was aware of the narrow halls ending as he was carried into a cavernous chamber in which the ceiling was too high to properly see, the light too strange and pale to adjust to all at once.

Grimmjow's gait became much steadier then, perhaps a show of some kind. At Aizen's throne, the arrancar wrapped his arm tightly around the boy's waist and jerked him toward the edge of his shoulder -

"Don't."

Aizen's commands were never open to question. Grimmjow settled the boy down on the floor with excessive care, attempting to lay him on his stomach.

"Good luck, princess," he sneered.

Ichigo squirmed for a moment and took to his hands and knees, shaking on his abused limbs in a last show of defiance.

All the easier.

Grimmjow was promptly dismissed; he left without a word to his lord or another to Ichigo, hands in his pockets as he uncomfortably contemplated the whole matter.

He didn't want to see it.

Aizen raised a brow and nodded to Gin, suggesting he go ahead and start the thing.

It wasn't terribly difficult, not just yet. Gin warily awaited some kind of perverted command that he remove all his clothing or contort into a position that would reveal the penetration clearly; he was pleased to find that it didn't come. He took to his knees and leaned down over the boy, the sleeves of his shirt coming to mask his peripheral vison in bright whiteness. He merely slid his hakama a little lower, just enough to expose the necessary equipment. Ichigo was, of course - already nude.

The boy squirmed, but managed only to open a few wounds; coupled with the blood dripping from his scalp, he only succeeded in slipping in it, his elbow coming down hard against the stone. Dazed, he only shivered as Gin kissed his neck. The silver haired shinigami was presently preoccupied with the question of just how he planned to arouse himself; perhaps he had his various perversions, but he was no accomplished rapist, and the boy didn't particularly appeal to him at any rate.

He thought of Kira. Kira's body, Kira's voice, his scent, the way he moved against him, how shy he was about his desires, yet how passively persistent. Gin reached beneath the boy to grasp his sex, in the same way that he always began his sessions with his lover, arousing him completely before progressing into preparing him.

And then, - something strange - Ichigo lurched and gagged; Gin glimpsed over his shoulder to verify his suspicion. Aizen sat up slightly in his throne and glanced curiously toward him as well, settling calmly back when he was satisfied that his assumption was correct.

Disgusting. Despite his wanton thoughts of his old lover, Gin's arousal faltered at that sight. He jerked the boy up against him, uninterested in dealing with that sort of filth at the moment. He wet his fingers then, and he heard Ichigo crying, begging even, though his words were slurred and mostly incoherent.

Interestingly he felt somewhat similar to Kira, inside, that was, tight enough to surge blood to Gin's sex as he closed his eyes and imagined his vice captain's pale body squirming beneath him. He spread his fingers inside the boy, stroked him, carefully traced over his prostate, making very sure to harden him with the same enthusiasm that he always bestowed on his lover.

He pushed into the boy carefully; more blood was all they needed, and aside from that, Aizen had specifically instructed him to be gentle, as to add to Ichigo's pain the fact that he had _benefitted_ from the occasion, so to speak. Once fully sheathed in the redhead's tight, pulsing body, he noted that he was again weeping; imagining that he was the sweet blond, Gin pressed his lips to his neck and assured him that things would be alright, feel better in just a moment - as he had often promised Kira.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he firmly stroked the hard length in his hand, running his thumb over the tip with each carefully angled thrust into the boy. Ichigo sagged in his arms like Kira often had in the process of giving up his precious body to his lover, a submissive act of yielding his will to the other which always ended in ecstasy for both of them. That warm body came to accommodate him perfectly, and with a few last, hard thrusts - during which he softly murmured _Izuru _- he filled that tight passage, coming in sharp bursts that left him panting.

Ichigo followed him moments later, finishing weakly with a sob, relying entirely on Gin for support.

It was up to Gin how to steal the boy's consciousness, and so he strangled it out of him, holding his neck tightly until he ceased his feeble struggling.

It didn't take long.


	3. Reward

When he was lucky, the wind would blow.

Otherwise he heard nothing. The breeze didn't rattle the branching bones that twisted up from the dead earth, nor stir the cold white sand. It just whistled, sometimes, very faintly, against the sill of the one window high on his cell wall, peaked and small.

They brought him food with no taste. He never saw it or heard it, when they brought it in; it just appeared, and he had no thought to refuse it, not out of desperation, but out of an old habit of living off of inertia alone. Why eat? Why not eat? He had always eaten before. No reason to stop now.

Those were the rules of thumb he lived by because they brought him from day to day without forcing any consideration. Consideration would have been the thing to do him in, and he knew it.

So he survived by inertia, off of white rice and water, plain pale fish and soft barley bread. The chopsticks they sent were thin and somewhat bendable, and, like all of the colorless dishes the food arrived in, unbreakable.

Sometimes, he thought of pretending to sleep, but staying up all night to see if the person who brought the food would, for a moment, talk to him. Other times, he shamefully appreciated the solitude.

He laid in bed and wondered if anyone else had been caught - he hoped not and the idea pained him, because he knew the others were not as well suited for endless periods of silent loneliness, with which he was well acquainted. He wondered if anyone back home thought he was alive. He hoped they did not. He hoped they all thought he had vanished into sand, and he hoped that it did not hurt them - that at least, after a short time, it would not hurt them anymore.

In a sense it was what he had always wanted. For a brief time in his life, he had wanted nothing more than friends and some gentle companionship, a fine little house to keep and perhaps plants to water, a good job to do and to do it well.

But the gentle companionship had come in the form of scythe-like fingers and a long pointed tongue, sharp angles: jutting hips and shoulder blades; a grip so tight it trapped the bone and a preternatural sense of one's wants, needs, weaknesses and failures that manifested itself in a constant, incisive smile.

And now he was here, and he didn't mind it as much as he knew he should have. But he had rather wanted something like that for some time. Of course he wasn't prepared to take his own life; he wasn't as weak as that, or perhaps he refused to probe the situation enough to truly alight upon the concept. What he wanted was to go somewhere where no one would ever see or think about him again. He had dreamed about sinking to the bottom of the ocean, where the strange glowing things lived and it was too deep to ever go - save for him - and living there, in the darkness unconscious, where he would, over many years, be eroded like quartz and swept all around the world to rest on every beach, having vanished from all thought.

It was hard. People stared. They offered to handle his work for him. Told him to stay in bed. Have a vacation. Talk to somebody. Don't go near his house anymore. Take better care of yourself. Why do you look so down? Stop saying you're sorry. Are you sure you don't need a hand? Looking too thin. Get some more sleep, you look exhausted. Feel better. All for the best.

What was worse was what they didn't say, or what they didn't say to him. He couldn't even imagine. The long and short of it, however, he knew: he's lost it.

He pressed his back against the cold stone wall of his cell and looked up at the ceiling, which receded into darkness before any detail was revealed. Perhaps, he pondered, it did not end. Maybe there was an opening at the top, for fresh air...

The new misery, having been delivered from the pity of sereitei, was this: was he there?

He had always believed that he could perfectly intuit Gin's presence. It had been on numerous occasions that Kira had suspected the man to be just behind a door or around a corner and, upon inspection, found him there. He knew it could also have been the fact that the man was somehow behind every door and around every corner, but he held onto the belief that he could sense him when he was near enough, feel his presence.

But he wasn't sure anymore.

He rose from his seat against the wall and stretched, feeling quite brittle, before settling down on the soft bed they provided him. Sometimes he slept all day, found two servings of food left out for him, ate them both, as a good guest would. Left the dishes stacked neatly, chopsticks in cup, cup on in bowl, bowl on plate, near the door.

From time to time he made his bed. No reason.

But then he was laying in it, underneath the blankets, unsure of whether or not his eyes were open or closed. He knew his thoughts should have been dedicated to strategy, to revenge or escape, to the sabotage of Los Noches in preparation for its eventual downfall at the hands of his friends and superiors. Instead, he thought of Gin. He thought of him constantly, couldn't decide what he would say to him if he arrived - if he would lash out for having been abandoned, even attack him - better to die that way than any other, he supposed; or, maybe even tearfully - he was sure he would cry - ask why he had been left that way; maybe he wouldn't do anything at all.

A breath of cold wind whistled on his window sill for a moment before passing on. He slept, waited, another bowl of white rice, cup of cool water, the fish, the bread, occasional wind, making his bed, pacing around, laying down, endless night. Constantly thinking of him.

+_+_+_+_+_+_+

"Perhaps. Forgive me, but - I do worry about the influence of his sentimentality."

Gin cocked his head to the side as if he did not understand.

"Whaddya mean? He's an emotional guy, sure. Doesn't mean trouble, though."

"Not on its face, perhaps," Aizen agreed with a paternal concern that would have tormented Gin if not for the possibility of his end goal, "what I mean to say is that I wouldn't want you to feel as though you were being persuaded by it."

"Don't think I would."

"No?" he absently brushed his fingertips over the arm of his marble throne.

"Nah."

"Do you think he would fight against them?" Aizen came to rest his cheek on his folded fist, casually laying back into his throne.

"Sure would."

"Really?"

"Without a doubt."

"I see..." he paused in consideration, glanced around the room as if in serious contemplation of the matter, and gave a tentative nod, "well then, naturally I will keep my word. But do understand my reservations."

"Loud and clear," Gin assured him, "one hundred percent."

+_+_+_+_+_+_+

He thought someone had merely been remiss and managed to wake him when bringing in his food. He heard the noise at the door - a very faint grinding of stone on stone - and refused to stir, both frightened at the potential consequences of seeing something he was clearly not supposed to see, and somehow embarrassed for the poor thing who had made a mistake in his work.

The doors closed again and he let his shoulders sink back into the mattress, free of their automatic tensing.

But the room was not quiet. He knew without opening his eyes or straining his ears that he was not alone, but rather being watched, and worse, approached. It was born out of that unnamed human sense which, in the subconscious, detects a presence, and it brought a cold sweat to his skin.

Suddenly worried that he was facing his death, he refused to look up, like a child - what one couldn't see, could not harm. He also hoped he would not see how it was he was going to die, nor when it was coming.

The soft footsteps halted and Kira drew his shoulders up involuntarily, ducking his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Izuru."

He didn't last as long as he thought he would. He started to cry. There really wasn't any strength left to shake his shoulders; tears simply fell, simply welled up suddenly and stung and then wet his cheeks. He grit his teeth, clenched his jaw, and turned away.

Gin moved closer.

Kira drew himself up and pressed himself tightly against the wall as though he could burrow into it and be unseen.

Gin's heart raced. There was no reason for it, he thought, it wasn't the first time Kira had shrunk away from him, into corners or against walls, but somehow he did feel as though it was the first time the blond really feared him completely.

He waited for long moments and observed Kira's breathing quicken by the rapid expansion and depression of his ribs, and his trembling. Despite the utter stillness, Kira was becoming more and more frantic, he wanted whatever was going to happen to just _happen_, for it to be over with, for Gin to leave or stay and finish the thing. But he was silent. Not even a breath. No wind. Tension built in him, filled him with a stinging coldness, tensed every muscle to the point of aching.

He felt like a child, crying like that, terrified not only of his fate but of its vector, he wanted desperately to believe that somehow, at the last minute, Gin would show some modicum of mercy - or even amusement, anything - and pretend it was affection, and save him. But he had offered to save people before.

"What's going to happen?" Kira asked at length, his voice broken and somewhat strangled; the speech gave way to a deluge of nervous sobbing, something he had been able to hold back before.

"What do you want to happen?"

Kira looked up, and was filled with immense gratitude for the fact that his vision was blurred. He only saw a column of whiteness in the dark.

"You don't..." he buried his face in the sheets.

"Anything you want," Gin promised, though Kira was, as always, rightfully wary of anything resembling sincerity in his voice.

There were fingers on his quivering shoulder. He flinched, startled, and then sat up, refusing to look at him. Anything he wanted?

The yukata they had given him was black, a kind of joke - a shinigami, hm? Here, have a little piece of home. They had made a uniform for the girl, but they had no intention of killing her. Kira, however...

He sat back and let the dark cloth slide off of his narrow shoulders, pulling his arms from the sleeves to bring a hand down to untie the sash. It fell around him, blended with his sheets; coldness overcame him and he shivered, gooseflesh rose over his neck and back.

Gin was, for once, genuinely surprised. The familiar fear of Kira having essentially broken resonated inside of him, but he said nothing; instead gently running the palm of his hand down the blond's spine, noting that it was disconcertingly prominent.

It was a situation outside of ceremony, perhaps outside of typical sense, and Gin treated it as such: with no words - no sense or ceremony - he moved onto the bed and urged Kira onto his back, removing pieces of his own white uniform as he went along, finally coming to rest a knee on either side of the blond's thighs.

It had occurred to him on his walk to Kira's cell to say something to him, something that would be decided on the spot, and he was somewhat glad that the situation didn't call for it. Still, it felt - somewhat - hollow...

Until he met Kira's lips. Of course he assumed the blond would wither beneath him, but he came absolutely alive, writhed, shuddered, threaded his fingers around Gin's neck and brought his knees up to press tightly against his hips. He bucked, moaned against the kiss, parted his lips to allow Gin complete access to his mouth, to trace every corner and taste him entirely.

Gin broke the kiss, panting and leaned in to nip eagerly at Kira's swollen lower lip.

"Izuru," he murmured, nuzzling him harshly and running his tongue along his lover's jaw.

"Don't," Kira whined pushing against his shoulders, "don't say anything, please -"

Because he didn't want to hear what he was sure he would.

Kira reached between them and grasped Gin's sex in his hand, squeezing tightly, earning a surprised moan from the taller. It wasn't as though he had been convinced not to speak, however: Gin bucked into Kira's hand and at the same time brushed the blond's hair back from his forehead, tangling his fingers in it in another onslaught of kissing, and then spoke again, this time huskily, in his ear.

"You're fine, it's fine, you're gonna be -"

Kira felt warm drops of precum drip onto the flat plane of his stomach, and arched up into the feeling, seemingly ignoring Gin's words.

"I've missed y-"

"I hate you," Kira ground out, and there were those tears again, despite the fact that his sex was pounding with the need to be touched, "don't - don't!"

Gin sealed their lips together again, all tongues and teeth - he knew the blond had every right to hate him, and in a sense it was a forgone conclusion that he would. Yet even then it stung, as much as it provided a bit of solace: if he was hated, there was enough passion to suggest that he could again be loved.

There were hands on Gin's shoulders, gathering his tight flesh and twisting, either pushing him away or pulling him closer he could not discern. He pulled his lips only a hair's breadth from Kira's and brought two of his fingers between them; they both ran their tongues along them, tangling and stroking one another, drenching them in fluid, kissing between them now and again.

By the time he was pressing one long, curved finger into his lover, Gin became acutely aware that the blond had been moaning and panting rhythmically for some time, though his own sounds of pleasure had been so intermixed with the other's that he had barely noticed. Kira arched into the penetration, rolling his hips for more, somehow shameless and unbridled in a way that Gin had never found him before. It was intensely arousing to see him so wanton, and yet he worried that it was a symptom of something terrible happening inside the younger, something breaking or broken.

It didn't prevent him, however, from stretching his lover's tight opening with deep strokes and careful teasing of that sweet, sensitive little spot inside him that had him spreading his legs and twisting his hands in the sheets as he writhed beneath him.

Satisfied with his work, Gin rose up and gathered the blond's tight thighs over his shoulders, and with one hard thrust, buried his sex inside him. Kira cried out sharply and arched his back, twisting his body as he became accustomed to the familiar hardness inside him, those skeletal hands steadying his thighs as he was impaled again and again, hard and fast, as he had grown to need it. Eyes squeezed tightly shut, he bucked back against his captain, encouraging every sharp thrust deeper into his body, where the angle was so perfect it forced harsh moans out of his throat with every single stroke. He reached above his head to press his hands into the headboard, stilling his body as to receive the full force of Gin's movements, which already had him nearing a mind-numbing orgasm.

"Yes - yes - mm -mmh!"

Kira's entire body tensed and trembled as he came, spilling his seed across his stomach. It lasted long enough to leave him disoriented, panting, barely aware of the last few thrusts into him that heralded Gin's orgasm.

But the spreading of his thighs and the harsh press against his body, and then the feeling of fullness that followed - all of that was hauntingly familiar. As he melted into the mattress, the blond felt his aching thighs being lowered, and the weight settled around him shifting to one side. Gin laid near him, placed his hand on his stomach, fingers trailing through some of the white liquid there.

And Kira wanted to say 'don't touch me', or to turn away, but at the moment he lacked the energy and wherewithal, and so he lay still, letting his labored breathing regulate to softness again. He didn't have the strength to stop Gin when he turned him onto his side, nestling close behind him, an arm draped over his thin waist.

The blond's heartbeat returned to a normal pace, and Gin felt the rapid expansion and contraction of his delicate ribs slow as well.

"What's going to happen," he asked again, quietly, shedding empty, burnt-out tears. There wasn't enough vigor left in him to shake his shoulders; he lay as still as if he were asleep, though tears stained his cheeks.

"Stayin' with us," Gin murmured in response, tucking strands of blond behind his lover's ear.

"No..." Kira breathed, with a weak shake of his head.

"You don't mean that," the elder replied, "y'know you don't."

Kira thought of being a traitor as well - what would they say now? It didn't matter, he knew, there was nothing left for him there but repeated small betrayals which, in their frequency, had built a greater pain within him than the one Gin had inflicted upon him - the one he so desperately wanted to understand.

"Why did you do this to me?" he asked meekly.

"Didn't do it to you, did it _in spite _of you. Nothin' to do with you I - swear."

"Why, then?"

"Aizen and I've got this little game goin' on, have for a long time -"

"A game?"

"I think of it like a game. When I was just a little guy, this real moron got on my case about - well, I was a shrimp of a kid, but I was already in academy 'n all - so I sliced him apart."

Kira gasped.

"And well," Gin went on, rubbing soothing circles into the blond's flat stomach, "Aizen just happened to be on a midnight stroll, and saw the whole commotion. So he's got me on a leash then, y'see? Could always rat me out, and that'd be the end of Ichimaru. So he says, 'well, you work under me, and nobody's gotta know.'"

"How is this - a game?" came the shaken response.

"Well, then it goes like this: I see him doin' all these experiments on folks, and he sees me tearin' more of 'em up. And back and forth. One after the other. At the end we've got too much dirt on each other to split up. We're stuck together, so I've always had to follow along, you know, though it's not like I didn't get my way now and then."

There was a long stillness during which it became apparent to Gin that the cell was very cold; he pulled the blanket up over them and pulled Kira tighter against him, pressing soft kisses to his golden hair.

"So, you're stayin' here too," Gin sighed with a simple finality.

"No," the blond tried again, "I can't -"

"But let's be real serious for a minute, I'm stuck to Aizen for the time bein' but you - well, we're bound up to each other forever."

"Another game?" Kira asked bitterly.

"Nope. Realest thing I've ever done."

And at that moment, Kira did let go of what he had been - who he had been, where his identity had been tied up, in duty and obligation and subtle shame - and did fasten himself to Gin's side.

He did not think of consequences.

He did not care.

* * *

**That's all, folks! Thanks for the read! Please let me know what you think! **


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